


Quod Erat Demonstrandum

by Mamihlapinatapei



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Season/Series 11, Slow Burn, in flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8806336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamihlapinatapei/pseuds/Mamihlapinatapei
Summary: Set just after Season 11 episode 15, Beyond the MatClaire is missing, and Dean sets out to find her while Sam researches ways to deal with Amara and get Lucifer out of Cas. Sam comes across an old diary tucked away somewhere in the bunker, that he thinks describes another hand of god. The only problem is the diary was written during World War I. Our boys will have to convince Lucifer to help them go back in time to track it down, and prevent the owner from wasting it's power. The location of the hand of god is warded against angels, so they are able to negotiate with Lucifer to send them back in time, and to let Cas take control of his vessel while they are there. Along the way of their epic quest to retrieve the hand of god they meet two soldiers who help Dean and Cas start to see a few things that have been right in front of their eyes for a long time.





	1. But more than you'll ever know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rated this mature for content in later chapters. Chapters 1-3 are rated T.

March 1, 2016

“Yeah, I’m fine Sam. Don’t wait up.” He doesn’t slur this as he closes the bunker door behind him. He’s going to ignore that not slurring took some effort. Just like he’s going to pretend that it’s all fine and dandy that he’s “not slurring” because he’s already gone through the whiskey, and chased the last of the tequila with one of Sam’s yerba matés. Because he is. Fine.

He wasn’t going to drink that tequila. Charlie was going to drink it with him. But it’s easier to down it than to think about how that’s not going to happen. He spends a lot of time thinking about things that aren’t going to happen.

He spends even more time trying not to.

But tonight, tonight’s not about thinking. Tonight he’s going to walk over to the Replay Room, and he’s going to keep drinking. It’s a Tuesday night and it’s after 9pm, so no live music. He can grab a seat at the end of the bar and…drink, really. Until he doesn’t see flashes of blue eyes every time he closes his own.

No. Just keep drinking.

He pushes into the bar, and the air is too clean. There are hints of sticky hops and mildewed bar mats, but there’s no smoke, no crushed peanut shells, no old man onion sweat. It’s dark and there are a couple of comfortable looking regulars perched on stools, doughy stomachs straining over belted jeans. Last week, he’d sat down next to Gunner in a dive that didn’t look all that different from this one, and the wrestler had slid over a shot like he’d known Dean was coming, like he’d been waiting, and Dean had thought, well, maybe, why not? It’s been a while.

But, Sammy was on that hunt and Sammy can’t know. He won’t do that to Sam.

No. Keep drinking.

He rests his forearms against the bar and catches the bartender’s eye, asks for a double shot of Jack. Resists the instinct to wink, to smirk. He slides some cash across the bar, scans the room for a quiet spot where he’ll be able to flag down the solo waitress taking care of the joint. She has dry dishwater blonde hair and for some reason he imagines flicking his tongue across a c-section scar. Maybe. Keep drinking.

It’s all still too close to the surface. How fucking dare he? After the shit he gave Dean about Michael and then Cas goes and…

No. Keep drinking.

Dean slams back the whiskey, and glances around for the waitress. Sees her back to him, waiting for an order over at the service station at the bar. He notices the denim skirt she’s wearing is snug against her ass, that if she bent just a little bit further he’d be able to tell what color underwear she has on, or doesn’t. Yes. Keep drinking.

She turns, drops some drinks off at a table, and he gives her a half smile, maintains eye contact. For her part, her eyes flick down to the floor, then back up, and she walks over to him. He notices the added sway to her hips, a brief tuck of hair behind an ear. She smiles. “What can I getcha?”

His heart’s not in it, but Dean cocks his own crooked grin in her direction and asks for another double. Holds her gaze, licks his lower lip.

“Comin right up.” She has dimples.

***

Dean wakes up to the steady drip of a toilet running in the next room. He opens one eye. His head throbs. The pillow he’s drooled onto smells like strawberry conditioner. Turned out he was wrong about the c-section scar. He glances over and she’s actually kind of beautiful. The eyeliner’s a little smudged, and she’s broken out along the right side of her hairline, but he’s definitely woken up to worse. He sits up and looks around for his jeans, underwear, t-shirt. Sees them scattered at the side of the bed. He notices a condom wrapper lying on the bedside table, and mentally pats himself on the back for making at least one good decision last night. He locates a single sock under the blankets, and gives up on finding the second. He dresses as quietly as possible. Takes a brief detour to take a piss and jiggle the handle to stop the damn toilet from running, then creeps out into the crisp March morning.

He has no idea where he is, but the map app on his phone says he’s only a twenty three minute walk from the bunker. When he’s a few hundred feet from the door, he feels a tap to the shoulder and turns to see Sam in running shorts and a long sleeve tee, smirking at him disparagingly. Dean’s not quite ready for brotherly banter but he offers a sarcastic salute as Sam jogs by. When Dean gets to the bunker, he can smell that Sam’s already got a pot of coffee going.

He skips the kitchen and heads for the showers. Stands under the hard stream of water for longer than is strictly necessary. He wraps a towel around his waist and trudges towards his room. No need to feel self conscious when its just Sammy at the bunker.

In his room, he tugs on last night’s jeans, a fresh tee shirt and a faded button up. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Figures it’s the waitress from last night and decides to ignore it until at least his second cup of coffee.

He may exaggerate his hungover shuffle into the kitchen a little for his baby brother’s sake. Sam’s left a mug out by the coffee maker for him, which Dean gratefully fills to the brim, then leans down and slurps some out so it doesn’t spill on the way to the table. He catches Sam giving him some side-eye, and slurps louder.

He plops down across from Sam and slides his phone out of his jean pocket, checks his messages out of habit and sees that the text isn’t from the waitress. It’s from Jody.

_Do me a favor and give Claire a call. She’s not answering me or Alex, and I’m starting to worry. And tell your brother to charge his damn phone._

Sam arches an inquisitive eyebrow, and Dean turns his phone around for Sam to read the message. Sam scans the text, gives a fond grunt and gets up, probably to plug in his phone.

Dean finds Claire’s number in his contacts and hits call. It rings a few times then goes to her voicemail. He hangs up and texts Jody.

_Just called and got her voicemail. What’s going on?_

A minute later Dean gets a call from Jody.

“Hey, Dean.” She sounds tired. “I figured this’d be faster. Claire’s been away a little over a month now. It was supposed to be a road trip with a few friends, but the friends got back six days ago and said Claire had only rode with them until Lincoln. I’ve been calling her every few days to check in, seemed like she was alright, but she’s stopped returning my calls.”

“OK, when did you last speak to her?”

“Five days ago. I’m not quite at defcon five level panic but –”

“Yeah, I get it. I’m sure she’s just off making some teenaged bad decisions, but we’ll track her phone and see where she’s at.”

“Way ahead of you. GPS says she’s in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. She’s closer to you boys than she is to me, so if you wouldn’t mind, I’d really appreciate if you could take a drive and try to find her for me.”

“On it. Text me the coordinates.”

Dean’s almost relieved. He needs this. Something to focus on that isn’t the constant dull pull of god’s sister’s cleavage, or…that other thing he’s doing his best to drown in whiskey.

Dean finds Sam in the library and fills him in on his conversation with Jody.

“Alright, well let me throw some clothes in a bag, and then we can head out,” Sam says, closing his laptop and starting to stand.

“No. Sam, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. I’ve got this. You keep going on something to get that son of a bitch out of Cas, or that’ll gank Amara.”

“Yeah, alright. You go. But you call me if anything goes sideways.”


	2. And sometimes you close your eyes

It’s hot and dry enough that Castiel tastes baked earth on the gentle breeze. Dust from his walk across the gravel parking lot coats the toes of his dress shoes. The sky is turning dusk gold. It certainly feels like a perfect late July evening in Nebraska. He’s standing in front of a worn screen door. The back of a rusted rocking chair ticks against the corrugated metal siding of Harvelle’s Roadhouse, or at least heaven’s nearest facsimile thereof. He’s not sure when he made the decision to come here, but now that he has, it feels like a mistake. 

He turns to leave and hears the creak of hinges, and a curt, “You comin’ in?” 

Ellen is bracing the door open for him with her heel, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, two glasses in the other. She’s not smiling. 

He steps through the doorway, walks to the bar, takes a seat on one of the mismatched barstools. Ellen takes her time getting back behind the bar. She clinks down the bottle and glasses, unscrews the cap on the whiskey and pours each of them a generous two fingers. 

“It’s been a little while since you and I had a drink together, big boy,” she says. 

“Yes.” 

“So, where the hell were you when my daughter was bleeding out on the floor of a hardware store?”

Cas’s eyes drop. “Lucifer. He trapped me in a ring of holy fire.” He looks back up at Ellen. “If I could have gotten to you I…I’m so sorry, Ellen.” 

Her jaw twitches. She downs her whiskey, refills the glass. 

“Figured it had to be something like that,” she says. “Jo’s around here usually. We’re alright. Ash taught us how to get around, so we see Bobby and Rufus, even John. We’ve got a weekly poker night going.” She chuckles. “How’re our boys doing?” 

“They killed the Angel of Death and unleashed the Darkness, an ancient force of chaos more powerful than God. The last time she was free God was only able to lock her away with the full might of heaven’s army and all the archangels behind him. She’s vowed to destroy the universe and everything within it. To wipe the slate clean and start over, fix God’s mistakes. Of course, now, the archangels are dead, the heavenly host is all but decimated, and God hasn’t been seen in millennia.” 

“Same old story, then. Sounds about right.” 

Cas looks down at the bar with a pained huff of laughter. 

“Why are you here, Cas?” Ellen asks. 

“I’m not entirely sure. It’s puzzling to me too.” 

“What’s happened to you? You look…I thought angels weren’t supposed to age.” 

“I was human for a period of time. An angel named Metatron stole my grace. And I spent a year in purgatory, cut off from heaven.” 

“It’s more than that. You were this righteous alien warrior of god when I knew you, and now you’re…different.”

“I think that’s part of why I’m here.”

***

Dean’s feeling a little better already. He always does behind the wheel of the Impala. He’s been on the road for six hours when Sam calls to check in. 

“Any updates?” 

“Not really, tracked her phone to just outside Pagosa Springs, then the signal cut out. Should be there in three hours or so. I’ll ask around town, see if she’s checked into any of the motels or if folks have seen her around. You bored already, Sammy, or you just miss me?”

Sam scoffs. “I’m worried about Claire, man. She thinks she’s all grown up and hardcore, but she’s just a kid. She didn’t make the best choices last time she was out on her own.”

“Dude, she’s probably holed up in some dorm room making out with a frat bro. I got this. I’ll find her. Besides, kid can handle herself.” 

“I hope so. Call if you need anything.” 

They say their goodbyes and Dean hangs up. Three hours later he pulls in at a motel on the edge of town called the Pink Flamingo Motor Court. While he’s checking in he shows a picture of Claire to the pimply front desk kid and asks if he’s seen her around. He says he hasn’t but to check at the bar across the street. Dean’s exhausted after driving for nine hours, and it’s late enough that the diner attached to the motel is already closed. He buys some stale vending machine snacks on the way to his room and passes out on top of the yellowing covers of the bed. The nightmares start soon after.


	3. Easy now, watch it go

June 4, 1991

John had shown up that morning at the motel room in Texarkana, Texas where he’d left Sam and Dean four days prior. He had a cut below his left ear and broken skin over the knuckles of his right hand, but his eyes were bright. Hopeful. He’d got word of a sighting of a man with yellow eyes in Trafford, Illinois. 

They drove for almost seventeen hours, only stopping a couple of times to buy gas station snacks and let the boys use the restrooms. Now it’s 2am and they’re somewhere on the edge of downtown Pittsburgh. The air is thick with humidity. John can taste exhaust fumes on each inhale, trapped by the heat, hovering over the pavement. His palms are tacky against the steering wheel. The boys are in the back of the impala. Dean’s head is resting against the door, eyes closed. Sam has fallen asleep across the other two seats, the top of his head pressed against Dean’s leg. John knows he should have stopped for the night a few towns back, let the kids get a decent night of sleep. Hell, he’d only had about three hours the night before. But he couldn’t risk getting to Trafford too late. 

About a block away, he sees a few teenage boys leaning against a fence. A car ahead of John’s slows, and stops. The driver winds down his window. One of the boys walks over. He can’t be more than fourteen, fifteen years old. He has greasy ear-length hair, baggy jeans, a white tank top. The boy leans down to talk to the driver, then walks around the car to get into the passenger side. 

John can feel the bile rising in his throat. These kids aren’t much older than his boys. He grimaces, mutters “Jesus Fucking Christ,” under his breath, wonders where the hell their parents are. If his boys ever…He would never forgive himself. He can’t keep leaving them alone like he’s been doing. They’re still just kids. He forgets sometimes. Dean’s always been so responsible. He grew up fast after Mary… John’s eyes flick to the rear-view mirror, and catch two wide green eyes reflected back at him. 

“You see that boy get into that car ahead of us?” he asks Dean, still staring him down in the mirror. He sees Dean nod. 

“You know what he’s about to do? He’s about to let that fucking faggot touch him, in exchange for money. You know what that makes him? A whore. There is no level of desperate where that is acceptable. That’s not something men do. You hear me?” 

Dean’s not looking at John in the mirror anymore. He’s staring at his toes. 

“Yes, sir.” It’s almost a whisper. 

***  
March 3, 2016

Dean wakes up with a stiff neck and a spring digging into his lower back. He pads to the bathroom and shucks his slept-in clothes. There’s no hot water when he steps into the shower. A little later, after gas station coffee and a donut, he makes a stop at the local police station. Jody has already contacted them and emailed over some pictures of Claire. The officer has an earnest face, with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She hasn’t seen Claire, but says she’ll ask around the station, see if any of the other POs have. She promises they’ll do what they can to find her. 

He drives around to the other five motels in town and asks around about Claire. No one seems to have seen her. He’s walking away from the check in desk at the last one, when he sees a woman with a housekeeping trolley stacked with towels and sheets. She’s an older woman, curvy, with cigarette stained fingers and a hole in her stockings. When she looks at Claire’s picture Dean could swear he sees a flash of recognition cross her face, but she shakes her head, says she’s never seen her. Dean texts Sam and Jody a quick update before pulling out of the parking lot. He drives by the motel’s small empty pool, dead leaves strewn across the bottom, cracked plastic lounge chairs at the edge. It reminds him of a place he’d been as a kid. A shiver runs down his spine as he turns onto the freeway. 

***

August 23, 1993

Dean follows his dad past a tiny fenced off pool into the grimy check-in office at the Blue Rose motel in Akron, Alabama. The guy who checks them in, Bo, according to his name tag, has a receding hairline and long fingernails. His grey eyes linger on Dean as he hands John the keys and wishes them a pleasant stay. 

Three weeks later, Dean makes the last box of macaroni and cheese for him and Sam. The next morning, there’s no more cereal for breakfast. They’re out of food, they’re out of emergency cash, and their dad was supposed to be back for them six days ago. 

Yesterday, the clerk at the nearby convenience store had caught Dean trying to leave with a box of granola bars and some pepperoni sticks stuffed in his jacket. He told Dean if he saw him in the store again he’d call the cops. 

Dean’s worried about his dad. He knows he’s doing important things, saving people’s lives, trying to find the monster who stole their mom. He tries not to think about his mom. For a long time after she died, Dean could remember exactly how it felt when she hugged him. Exactly how she smelled of flowers from her perfume, baby powder, melted butter, cinnamon. For months, when he missed her so much that his chest ached, and he didn’t want his dad to see him cry, he’d crawl into the cupboard in his room at Bobby’s and wrap himself in his mom’s terrycloth dressing gown. They’d got it for her for Christmas the year before Sammy was born, and it still smelled like her, so he could pretend that she was there with him in the dark until he fell asleep. He has no idea what happened to that dressing gown. 

He’s always afraid that this will be the time his dad doesn’t come back for them. This will be the time one of the things that go bump in the night will see John before John sees it. 

There’s a knock at the motel room door. Dean gets up and opens it to see Bo. The man leans a hand against the door frame, starts tapping his long fingernails against the wood. 

“Your dad around, buddy?” 

“He’s out.”

“Well do you know, when he’ll be back, because the credit card we have on file is still coming up declined, and y’all can’t stay here ‘till you’re paid up for last week.” 

“Soon.” 

“See, that’s what you said on Monday, and I’ve been keeping an eye out for him, but I haven’t seen him around… Now, I don’t want to kick you boys out, but I really can’t let you keep the room without some kind of payment.” 

“Look, we don’t have any money to give you. My dad called this morning and said he’d be back tonight.” 

“Alright then. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning. You have a good day now. It’s supposed to be real hot out. Good day for a swim. Hope you brought your bathing suit.” 

Dean shuts the door. The guy gives him the creeps. 

Later that afternoon, Dean manages to rock the motel’s vending machine enough to knock loose a couple of bags of chips and some peanuts, but he’s more than a little worried about their food situation. John still hasn’t shown up the next morning when there’s another knock at the door from Bo.

“Still no dad, huh? I can’t keep letting two kids stay in a motel room without an adult. I’m starting to think I should call the cops, or child protective services or something…”

“You can’t do that. We’ll pack up our stuff and get out of here. Just don’t call the cops.”

“Now, I can’t just let you leave without paying for the room. I could lose my job.” 

“I can’t pay you.”

“I think we might be able to work something out.” He smiles and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I could use your help with something in room 304. Why don’t you meet me over there at ten thirty when I take my break?” 

“What do you need help with?” 

“Oh, nothing too difficult. Won’t take long.” Bo slides the hand on Dean’s shoulder down his arm. He turns to leave, looks back at Dean and says, “See you at ten thirty.” 

Dean thinks about packing their bags and running, but he doesn’t know where they’d go. They don’t know anyone in Alabama; they’d have nowhere to sleep. It’s hot enough that Dean’s worried about dehydration. At least at the motel they have running water. He doesn’t want to go to room 304. He has a pretty good idea of what Bo wants help with, but the words “take care of Sammy” play on a loop in Dean’s head. Take care of Sammy. 

At 10:28am he leaves Sam watching cartoons, and walks toward room 304. His palms are damp, armpits prickling with sweat. He feels nauseous. He reaches the door, but can’t quite bring himself to knock. He takes a deep breath, breathes it out slowly, thinks about why he’s doing this. As he raises a hand to knock, he hears the familiar rumble of a V-8 engine pull into the parking lot behind him. He turns around, sees the sleek black silhouette of his dad’s car.


	4. But you can dip your feet

March 3, 2016

Sam rubs his eyes trying to fight off the headache tapping at the back of his skull. He’s been sitting in the bunker’s library for hours pouring over every book he could find that might hold an answer to how to defeat Amara, or expel Lucifer from Cas. He’s got one more box he wants to get through before he calls it a night, but he’s so tired his vision is starting to blur. He found the box that morning, covered in a thick layer of dust on a bottom shelf in a room he has just started to go through and catalogue.

He stands, stretches, picks up his empty mug and goes to the kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee. He thinks about leaving the box for the morning, wandering down the hall to his room, and burrowing into the warm covers of his bed. Or maybe crashing on Dean’s memory foam mattress, seeing as he isn’t using it. But instead, he swallows a few gulps of cold coffee and goes back to his spot in the library. He takes the books out of the box and spreads them out over the table. Most of them are thin, well-worn moleskins, but one of them is thicker than the others, and leather bound, with a metal clasp. He opens this one and reads the note on the inside cover:

_January 12th, 1918_  
_To my idiot older brother, from your devoted baby sister. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of being your biographer. You are a good man. The best I know. I have written your story. Perhaps now that it is spelled out in black and white, you will finally see it for what it is._

 

***

After a cold, greasy burger at the diner at his motel, Dean ventures over to the bar across the street. It has a neon sign in the window that used to say Sullivan’s, before half the letters burned out. The interior is dark, and Dean’s shoes stick to the floor a bit on his way over to the bar. But it’s not too crowded, and Eye of the Tiger is playing over the tinny speakers, so he takes a seat and orders a beer. He flashes the bartender Claire’s picture, asks if he recognizes her at all, but the guy just grunts and shakes his head before moving on to take another drink order.

A couple hours go by, and Dean’s moved on to whiskey. It smells like campfire and tastes a bit like gasoline, but it’s started to loosen the knot between his shoulders, so it’ll do. He’s pretending to pay attention to the game on the T.V. above the bar, but his mind keeps wandering. He’s not sure if he’s furious with Cas for saying yes to Lucifer, or just shit-scared he won’t be able to get Lucifer out of his best friend before he turns Cas into an empty shell. He decides to stick with furious. Doesn’t want to pick too much at those scabs. He’s not ready for what he might find underneath.

A man, probably mid-forties, with a bit of salt coming in at the temples of his pepper-dark hair, takes a seat at the bar next to Dean. He’s tall and trim, with broad shoulders, and a touch of five-o’clock shadow.

“Sox fan?” he asks Dean, while glancing towards the screen.

“Nah. Not really, but it’s the only thing on.”

“Fair enough. Mind if I buy you a round? I don’t like to drink alone.”

Before Dean can answer, the man has flagged down the bartender and ordered two whiskeys. The man introduces himself, says his name is Peter, and the two men make idle small talk for a while. Dean tries not to think about how Peter’s Henley fits tightly across his toned chest. Or notice the conspiratorial twinkle in his eye at the punchline of a slightly off-color joke. He doesn’t comment when Peter puts a familiar hand on Dean’s shoulder while describing a prank he pulled on his college roommate his freshman year. Dean’s just enjoying the normalcy of shooting the shit with a new drinking buddy. And, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s enjoying the attention.

After another three rounds of whiskey, Peter leans in close to Dean.

“Hey, you wanna get outta here? My motel’s not too far…”

“Sorry buddy, I’m flattered, really, but you’ve made a mistake. I don’t play for that team.” Dean’s said it before he’s even thought about an answer. It’s reflexive. His knee jerk, ingrained response to any man who tries to get too close.

“I apologise. Misread the situation. I should get going though. Early morning tomorrow.” Peter looks sad, and a little confused.

“No worries, man. Nice talking to you.”

Peter heads for the exit, and as the door closes behind him, Dean’s already kicking himself. It’s not like he wasn’t interested, and Sam’s back home in Lebanon. No reason for him to say no this time. No good reason, anyway. He downs the rest of his drink, and turns back to try to get the bartender’s attention. There’s a new person behind the bar. Dean hadn’t noticed the shift change while he was talking to Peter. The new bartender is looking at the door with a sour expression on his face, lip curled in contempt.

“Queers, man. They don’t even try to hide it these days. What can I get you?”

“Yeah. Nothing right now. Have you seen this girl?” Dean pulls out his phone, brings up the picture of Claire to show to the bartender.

“Yeah, I seen her. She’s been hanging around the last couple of weeks. Been in here a few times. But if you’re lookin' for her, I’d try down on Canal St.”

“Another bar?”

“No, more like on the corner.”


End file.
